Pots, Hearts, and Irons in the Fire

Ex#3 wanted the Keurig.  Being a coffee faux-gourmand, I was reluctant and fearful that I would lose a bit of Old World integrity with each new dawning day.  But after she left, I have been grateful for a lot of things.  I’ve even begun to put a dent in the inventory of the one-cup plastic containers—that she used—that are filling landfills around the globe along with other kinds of convenience plastics. (How did Old World humans survive without Tupperware?)  I’ll have to decide about my level of desire for a comparable replacement—if I don’t get a girlfriend before the Keuring breaks—because it drips a great one cup.  Right now, I’m too fragile to face the lonely two ounces at the bottom of a hefty 12-ounce carafe.  How punishing the days! 

I didn’t expect the Keurig to ka-poot before I sold the house. I had decided that everything I don’t want to (pack and) move into my next life would last for 60 more days.  Who would want to replace things that are attached to her?  It’s my right and desire to have a ceremonial throwing out all of her when I make my last load to the curb. 

Also, I’ll have to make a decision about the dryer—moving one in only to move it out in a month or two—which appears to be losing its heating element.  Does that mean I’ll have to pay someone to move the lonely, old washer to the curb before it dies? (There’s a bit of symbolism seeping into my blog!)  More interesting a thought—if the inhabitants of earth had only one gender, would washers and dryers be one device? 

I wish the buyers would make an offer on the enormous couch that doubles as a trampoline.  I don’t want to move it any more than the Keurig or washer and dryer.  Their children pounded the crap out of it during the home inspection.  I’m not sure why they brought children and a neighborhood of friends to our house—I mean, my house. It’s been my house for more nine months. I’ll probably still think “we” when thinking backwards, but I’m learning to say “I” during forward.  Bear used to say I say “we” too much, but she hasn’t said that recently.  

“I” laid on the new couch alone for the past 9 months.  I don’t have any desire to move the semi-circle beast—or those alone times that have melded into the leather and will inevitably come along and rise like desperation vapors.  I don’t want to lay on it with a new girlfriend; I don’t want her to get sucked into the Ex#3 vacuum of despair. 

Speaking of vacuums, in my scurry, I must have thrown out the filter for the Dirt Devil.  The two dog-and-a-cat collection of hairs got sucked into the motor.  I’m going to get a screwdriver and try to repair something that I know nothing about, but I’m looking at the glass as half-full these days.  So, it will get repaired or it will go into the trash.  I’m fine with either because all is as it is to be.

I’m off to Yoga this morning and then to wherever people buy irons.  We bought one a number of years ago but it went ka-poot two weeks ago.  I can handle the packing of a 1x1 foot iron, especially if I selected the new one for me.